


A Circular Staircase

by Bether



Series: FanFic100 (Dani Moonstar) [7]
Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Canon, Angst, Canon Related, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-22
Updated: 2009-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bether/pseuds/Bether
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kubler-Ross system describes five stages of grief: denial (and isolation), anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. A shame life is rarely so simple and well-ordered.</p><p>The story of how Dani Moonstar learns to handle her grief and the people that help her get there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Circular Staircase

**Author's Note:**

> A bit AU, set between the X-Men moving to San Francisco and Secret Invasion. Things are purposefully vague to start but, hopefully, explained adequately by the story's end. Title comes from a line in Linda Pastan's poem The Five Stages of Grief. Cheers!
> 
> **Disclaimer: **Characters mentioned are used without permission and are trademarks of Marvel Characters, Inc. I do not own them and am simply borrowing for my purposes. Please don't sue.

**i. denial (and isolation)**

"I don't believe you." The words spill out of her mouth in an angry hiss before she can stop them.

She doesn't miss the hurt that flashes across his face but she ignores it. She doesn't have a _choice_. She loves him, she does—he's like a brother to her!—but this… there's no way. It's not possible. It's _not_.

She loves him, but she can never, _ever _believe him.

His expression is set but she doesn't miss the sadness in his dark eyes. They're so different from _his_ cornflower blue. "It's true, Dani," he tells her sternly. "Sam—"

"Shut up!" she interrupts harshly. "You're so full of it Roberto Da Costa and I—I refuse to play this game with you anymore! It's not funny, Bobby! It's _not!_"

The sympathy in his gaze is almost unbearable as he places a hand on her shoulder that's meant to be comforting. (She stiffens with the contact.) "I _know_," he insists gently, an unusual amount of patience in his tone. "But—"

Again, she refuses to let him finish. "But nothing," she bites back, wrenching her shoulder from his grip. "I don't believe you." She wants to believe there's nothing except pure determination in her voice but his expression tells her she's missed the mark.

"Dani—"

"No!" she cries suddenly, slapping him hard across the face. There's a moment of stunned silence between them, then she turns tail and runs as fast as her legs will take her. They both know he could catch her if he'd tried—he's taller and can _fly_, after all—but he doesn't. She's glad; she needs time to digest. (Although she suspects his reasoning has more to do with the red handprint she left on his cheek than respect for her feelings.)

 

**ii. anger**

"Uhn!" she grunts, giving Viper a roundhouse kick to the chest. The green haired woman turns her stumble into a twist, then leaps toward her. She manages to dodge her and has just rounded for another assault when the villain suddenly flickers out of existence.

Growling, she glares at the control booth. "What the _fuck?_" she shouts in what might _generously_ be called an unfriendly tone. There's no answer, which only serves to make her angrier. "Ooh, someone is just _asking_ for a fight…"

"Yeah?" a familiar voice prompts from behind her. She masks her surprise with annoyance (not a challenge) and wonders, not for the first time, how someone with so much metal on their bones can move so stealthily. "That someone you, Moonstar?"

With an inelegant snort, she turns to face the intruder. "Sounds more like _you_, don't you think, Logan?" she sneers. "What're you doing here—_I_ have the Danger Room reserved for another half hour."

One eyebrow rises and she doesn't like what she sees glittering in his gaze. (It looks suspiciously like _understanding_ and she doesn't want that right now.) "Just thought you might like a _real_ fight," is his casual offer, as if they're discussing something mundane like the weather. "From someone who can handle it."

She crosses her arms, eying him up and down. "You that someone?" she asks with an ugly look of contempt on her face. "I'm not stupid, _Wolverine_; I know you can kick my ass five ways from Sunday."

"And _I_ know that you want someone to feel what you're dishing out. Might as well be me." Because he can take it. Because she can't hurt him, not permanently. Because she'll tire out long before he does.

Unfortunately, that knowledge only serves to make her angrier. The pain she feels is real—she wants the pain she doles out to be real, too. (And she hates herself just a little for the admission.) "Well sor-_ry_," she snaps, dragging the second syllable out. "Not all of us can heal our wounds as easily as you."

He just smiles in a way that leaves her slightly disconcerted. (She'd probably call it kind if it were anyone else.) "Can't rile me up, darlin'. This is about _your_ anger. So how 'bout you get it out before it destroys everything you care about?"

She stands stiff for a moment, considering before nodding curtly. "Fine." Then she's in the air again, lashing out at him like he's responsible for everything she's raging at right then. She hates that it feels good, hates that she can't control herself better. But she knows better than most that anger's like that—safe, if destructive. She also knows she'll have to let it go eventually. This moment is not that moment, though, so she revels in it while she can.

 

**iii. bargaining**

Being in a church has always felt weird to her. She isn't Catholic or even Christian but there's something peaceful about this space. She feels like if the gods were going to live somewhere on this plain, it'd be in a place like this.

Her face is tilted toward the ceiling, specks of color dancing over her closed eyes as she tries to find something resembling peace inside herself. "Isn't there something I can do?" she asks softly, momentarily startled by the sound of her voice in her ears.

"Ah but that it were that easy, _lieb_," a gentle German accented voice responds. It doesn't surprise her, exactly—she knows this is his place more than most—but she also hadn't heard or seen him since entering the chapel.

Opening her eyes, she sees him standing not far off, straightening up. "Kurt," she says slowly after a long moment of watching him, "why would God—_any_ God—let this happen?"

There's something decidedly sad in his smile. "That's not how it works, Dani," he answers slowly. "You know that."

"I don't know anything!" she bursts out suddenly, only slightly mortified by the loudness of her voice. "I would give anything—_everything_—to fix this. To take his place or—something. _Please_, there has to be _some__thing_. It's just—it's not fair that we're all so _helpless!_"

Tears are running down her cheeks and he's hugging her tightly but she hardly notices. "What can I do?" she asks. Pleads, really. "What can I do to make this better? How can I—" here, her voice cracks, "how can I save him? Please, there has to be a way…"

He doesn't answer her and, in all honesty, she didn't expect him to. She's not asking him, not really. What he does do is keep his hold on her and whisper comforting words to her in German as she cries.

Eventually, when her sobs have been reduced to sniffles, she pulls away a little to look at him. She's sure she's a mess, eyes red-rimmed and glistening with still more unshed tears. "Why can't I do anything?"

"All I can think," he says slowly, "is that there is some kind of plan out there." He takes her hand in his and offers her a small smile. "And remember, _lieb_, it may be his fight but there _are_ things you can do. There are always things we can do."

She sniffles and wipes her eyes. "Yeah," she agrees half-heartedly. She knows he's right, but she also knows she's not ready to do those things. Not even for him.

 

**iv. depression**

She's sitting, pouring over a box of pictures when he comes to see her. There are tear tracks on her face and tissues littering the floor around her but she doesn't try to hide it anymore. He doesn't say anything, just crouches beside her and tilts the photo she's holding toward him. She watches the small smile form on his face but can't match the expression, not even at the image of him and Sam horsing around with a guilty-looking Doug and innocently mischievous Warlock.

"Soon there'll only be you left," she whispers, bypassing the usual pleasantries. Fresh tears sting her eyes and she looks away, ashamed at being so very broken (even in front of such an old friend). "The other two are already gone…"

He releases the picture, placing his hand on her back to rub comforting circles instead. "Dani, you shouldn't think like that. The doctors—they say he has a sixty percent chance of finding a match."

She's silent for a moment, leaning into him for support. "You know it's a bunch of bullshit," she says with quiet conviction. There's no malice in her tone, just heartbreaking sadness and pained resignation. "He's going to die. Everyone we love does—Illyana, Doug, Kitty, Jean, Sean…"

"On multiple occasions," he jokes almost reflexively.

"Bobby!" she admonishes, though there's a watery almost-smile on her face. It dims far too quickly and she covers her face with her hands. "Everybody dies and there's never anything we can do to stop it."

He pulls her into a hug then and she curls against him, body shaking with silent sobs. "We can be there for them," he whispers into her hair, holding her tightly. "We can let them know we care for them."

She lets him pet her hair and console her for a minute before shaking her head. "It's not enough. Nothing can ever be enough. And I just—I _can't_…" she trails off into hiccupping sobs.

Murmuring words of reassurance in both English and Portuguese, he rocks her gently back and forth. "Just be honest with him. Tell him how you feel." He plants a kiss on her temple before extracting his person from hers. "It will be enough. For him, that's _always_ been enough."

"I know." And she does, too. That's quite possibly the worst part. She _knows_ he's right (always has, if she's honest with herself), and yet she hasn't been able to do that _one thing_. Being open has never been easy for her but _still_. It's not so much, really, and she hates herself for denying him this. But she refuses to spend any more time on self-pity—not when she's still so heartbroken over what's happening to her friend.

 

**v. acceptance**

The first thing she notices about the building is how _white_ it is. Floors, walls, ceiling—even the curtains are white. They try to break it up with touches of color here and there, a peaceful and utterly non-offensive painting in each room, things like that. She knows it's meant to calm patients and visitors but it doesn't much effect on her. Mostly the mediocre art just irritates her.

She lets herself into his room (number six-one-three) and quietly closes the door behind her. If he's asleep, she can just come back. Yeah. That's what she tells herself. She won't wake him if that's the case, either—out of respect. Uh-huh. Not because of any sort of guilty feelings over the fact that she hasn't visited him at all since he's been admitted. No, no. That's not it at all. Right.

"Hello?" his voice called, a bit horse but still distinctively Southern. "Someone there?"

The curtain (white, of course) hides her from view and it takes more courage that it ought to for her to push away from the (also white) door and walk fully into the room. She stalls once he's in sight, awkwardly passing a small bouquet of lavender between her hands as she tries not to feel woefully inadequate.

It might be her imagination but he looks tired to her. His blond hair is a bit stringy, as if it hasn't been washed for a few days, and she thinks there might be new wrinkles around his blue eyes. She's still a good distance from his bed, ducking her head in an attempt to hide the light blush warming her cheeks. "Um, hi."

His face instantly softens at the sight of her and he smiles easily. "Hey there, Chief." He eyes her carefully for a long moment (during which time she desperately tries not to squirm) before gesturing for her to come closer. "Whatchu doin' all the way over there, girl? Get over here!"

That's all the prompting she needs. She drops the flowers at the foot of his bed and all but flies to his side, hugging him tightly (but carefully). "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry," she blurts out when she finally pulls away. "I know I should've been here a long time ago, but I just didn't want to believe it because—because, well, you're _Sam_ and this isn't supposed to be happening. You were gonna outlive us all, remember?" That feels like such a long time and her chest tightens unpleasantly. "And I—I just…" She sniffles and ignores the tears that are beginning to roll down her cheeks. (She's gotten far too used to crying in these past few weeks.) "I'm _so_ sorry. You deserve better."

"Hey now," he takes her hand in his and tugs her closer again, "don't say that. You're one of my best friends, Dani. Who cares if it took ya a while to come? You're here now, ain'tcha?" His free hand wipes away a few of the tears on her cheek, his palm cool on her too hot face. "_That's_ what counts."

Swallowing hard, she shakes her head. "You're too nice to me, Sam. You've always been too nice." That's why women walk all over him—and how he manages to be best friends with the likes of Roberto Da Costa. "I just couldn't take it, you know? I didn't want to admit…"

Here's where she draws forward her last reserves of strength, hoping beyond hope that she can find it in her to be brave. It's easy to stand up when she's facing things she can fight with her bare hands, things she might fear but still has a shot at beating. But this? Facing her feelings without any guarantees? That's a whole _other_ ball game, one she's never been any good at.

She sits beside him and takes both his hands into hers, meeting his gaze evenly. She wants him to know just how much she means this because there's a very good chance she won't ever work up the nerve to say this again. "I love you, Sam. You always believe in me and are such a good friend—I hate to think of my life without you. Even when we're apart, I always know that, if I needed you, you'll be there. _That's_ what brought me back. _That's_ what keeps me fighting." She squeezes his hands. "Not the other New Mutants, not Xavier's dream, not the next generation—_you_. And I just don't know where I'll be if I lose that. If I lose _you_."

And there it is. There's the real and full truth—the truth she's never shared, not completely. She just hopes it's enough. Because that is really and truly all she has left to give him, the only help she can think to offer.

He nods once and then his face splits into a wide smile. "Thank you." Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulls her close enough that their noses are very nearly touching. "But you know I'm gonna live to a ripe old age, just to tease ya 'bout your big emotional display." Impulsively, he plants a wet smack of a kiss on her forehead.

"Ugh, Sa-am!" she cries, rubbing the spit off as best she could. "I swear, even after all these years, Roberto still hasn't managed to get any manners into that thick skull of yours." She shakes her head, snuggled against him a little. "Guess I'll just have to whip you both into shape once you get outta here."

Anchoring her to him with one arm, he reaches up with the other and delivers a (rather half-assed) noogie. Still, there's nothing but warmth in his tone when he agrees, "Guess so."


End file.
